June, Reimagined (41)

The Jarl spun June in a circle and pulled her back in by the waist. She laughed as she tripped over his boots.

“Let’s try that again, lassie.” He flung June wide, twirling her, making her head spin. At arm’s length, June lost his grip. She snatched at the air, looking for fingers or palm or anything, but the Jarl had stumbled back in a boom of laughter.

Someone caught June, barely, before she tumbled to the ground.

“Once again, here I am saving your life.” Lennox placed June back on her feet.

She brushed her hair from her face. “That was your fault. You made him dance with me.”

“I merely suggested that you had a penchant for drinking too much and waking up in a stranger’s bed.” June gasped and slapped Lennox’s arm. He laughed. “I’m just taking the piss!”

June shoved him again. “You’re an ass.”

Lennox grabbed June’s hand and pulled her toward him. “Don’t be mad, Peanut.”

She tried to remain steady, even with her heart in her throat. Shivers raced down her body. He was close enough that June could rest her head on his chest, and she resisted, but she felt it physically impossible to back away. Lennox’s hands drifted down her back, then he grabbed her hips and held her to him. His fingers edged the top of her pants, touching the sliver of June’s exposed skin.

She had no notion of whether the music was fast or slow, or whether people were staring at them. All she felt and smelled and heard was Lennox, the rise and fall of his chest, his fingertips on her skin. She tried to reach her arms around his neck, but her lack of height made the attempt almost comical.

“Shall I get you a stool, Peanut?”

June smiled up at him. “I’ve never danced with a man in a skirt before.”

“Kilt.”

“Call it what you want. You’re still wearing a skirt.”

“Your American fraternity boys—”

“I don’t have any American fraternity boys. And if I did, they couldn’t pull off a skirt. They don’t have your legs.”

“You’ve been looking at my legs?”

June rolled her eyes. “I bet girls have been admiring your legs since you put on your first pair of rugby shorts.”

Lennox feigned shock. “I feel violated. Do you think I’m that shallow?”

“I think . . .” June examined his rugged face. “You could have any girl in this room. And you know it.”

“Not any,” Lennox said. “At least one lass has made it perfectly clear she doesn’t like me.”

June didn’t know what to say. She was in a catch-22—speak the truth and risk embarrassment or, worse, rejection or lie and spare herself the attachment and inevitable sadness when she had to say goodbye and live with an aching heart. “Maybe that lass was too quick to judge. Maybe she didn’t know you that well.”

“And now?” Lennox asked.

Just a week ago, June would have said Lennox was a mystery to her. And on so many levels, that was still the truth—his family and his past unknown to her. But the man who held her was no stranger. June was intimately acquainted with his smell, that he took his tea with honey and milk, how he organized his CDs by release date, oldest to newest, rather than in alphabetical order. He loved Max like an appendage. Lennox was quiet, but June could see his mind constantly moving. He was protective of the people he cared about, like Amelia and Hamish, but he loved them softly.

“Maybe”—June shrugged—“she knows you a little.”

Lennox brought a hand to June’s shoulder, grazing his fingers along her exposed collarbone. “Maybe it isn’t all her fault. Maybe she’d be better off if she kept her distance.”

June stepped closer. “Maybe she doesn’t take orders that well.”

Lennox chuckled. “I’ve noticed.”

But anything he may have said after that was cut off by the Jarl’s booming voice thanking everyone at the hall and announcing that it was time for the squad to move on. Lennox and June parted, their connection deteriorating with the interruption. It was nearing four in the morning, and until that point, June had seemed to forget to be exhausted. She had been up early and had spent the day photographing all over town. She must have walked ten miles. Coupled with whisky and beer, and without Lennox to hold her up, June nearly fell over as she yawned.

“Go home, Peanut. You’re pure done in.”

June stood up straighter, fighting the fatigue. “No way. I’m not leaving. The party’s not over.” Lennox shook his head with a dark chuckle. “What’s so funny?”

“I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re just so . . .”

“So what?” A thousand responses swarmed her head.

Lennox leaned down to her, his breath on her skin, the smell of the night’s festivities on his clothes. If he tilted closer, June decided, she would kiss him right there on the dance floor.

“Stubborn,” Lennox replied.

June crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re an arse.”

“I know. You already told me that.” He grabbed his helmet off a table. “I’ll see you at home, Peanut.”

“Don’t be so sure. I might run away with a Viking tonight.”

“You won’t.”